


Les Femmes Acharnées

by Violsva



Category: La fiancée hésitante | The Hesitant Betrothed - Auguste Toulmouche
Genre: 19th Century, Female Friendship, Gen, Misses Clause Challenge, Murder, Spies & Secret Agents, Yuletide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-03
Updated: 2016-12-03
Packaged: 2018-09-06 06:26:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8738281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Violsva/pseuds/Violsva
Summary: Blanche has a plan, Céleste has a plan - really, everyone has a plan.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Gehayi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gehayi/gifts).



“Blanche, darling,” said Delphine, throwing her hat on a chair and leaning over to kiss Blanche’s forehead. “I’m sorry I’m late - though I don’t suppose I’m _late_ , really, but you’re all dressed already! Rose,” she added, laughing, “give your sister her crown back.”

Blanche had not been able to utterly control her expression when Delphine came in so cheerfully, but by the time Delphine had removed her gloves and her shawl and was looking at her properly she was smiling. Not beautifully, not honestly, but she hoped there seemed to be nothing more than pre-wedding nerves causing her anxiety. And she hoped Céleste had seen nothing, though the other girl had clutched at her hand convulsively when Blanche felt her expression slip.

They both knew, though, that she was not marrying for love. She was, they thought, preparing for a campaign, a long term investigation - possibly a never-ending one. That would be reason enough for nerves, even if she normally disdained such nonsense. They wouldn’t suspect that she intended to cut the investigation very, very short.

“It’s a lovely crown,” said Rose, taking off the orange blossoms and turning it in her hands. She was sixteen, and innocent of any plots whatsoever, and no doubt half of Delphine’s frivolity was entirely for her benefit.

“It’s not yours yet,” said Blanche. “You’re too silly still.”

“Silly!” said Rose, offended. “Should I be dry and serious and dull, instead?” She tossed the orange blossom wreath at Blanche, and Céleste quickly moved to catch it in case it should break or bend when it landed.

“Blanche,” she said, carefully handing her the orange blossoms, “I’m so sorry, I have forgot something dreadfully important - oh, dearest, I’ll be right back.” She brushed down her skirts and darted out to find her hat. “I will be right back,” she called through the parlour door. The three of them stared after her.

At least, Blanche thought bitterly, she did not have to worry that Céleste had seen her expression; if she had she would have been kind enough to stay and be supportive, whatever she had forgotten.

But she had no doubt, really, that Céleste would be back before the ceremony. She would need her friends beside her, to go through with it. Just the ceremony, she told herself, just the ceremony and the wedding breakfast. Just so she could get close enough - and once she _was_ close enough, she would finish this.

Her assigned duty had been to study him, to watch his treason from a distance and report on it, remaining out of suspicion herself. At first she had thought him better than he was said to be, then she had thought she could bear it, for the sake of her work, now...

Well. She would be perfectly capable of managing it. He certainly could not be allowed to continue.

But she could have lived well enough as his wife and his watcher, she thought. She was good at silent observation. She had certainly made use of it during their engagement, and so learned that Monsieur Mereville had friends who knew who she was.

She did not wish to live on constant alert for when he found out or whether he already knew. She had learned enough about his activities to justify her actions to her superiors, now that she could not risk being close to him.

Delphine was preoccupied by other concerns entirely. “Can I borrow a handkerchief? I left in such a hurry that I forgot mine. I don’t think I’m going to cry at your wedding, Blanche, dear, but if I do do something so silly I shall need it.” Blanche found a handkerchief and handed it to her, and she stowed it in her reticule. “Thank you. My, I wonder why Céleste had to leave so quickly.”

***

Céleste had thought Blanche was just as normal before her wedding - almost too much as normal, with no nerves at all. And then, when Delphine came in, only an hour before the ceremony, she had looked at Blanche’s face and realized.

Céleste didn’t _like_ Pierre Mereville, of course, but she didn’t have to; Blanche had talked as much of the joys of having her own establishment as she had of her mission, and she wanted her friend to have a purpose, and status, and the freedom to work that would come of being out of her father’s house. But when she saw Blanche’s face she put together the expression and everything she knew about Mereville and came to sudden, terrible conclusions.

It was not that Blanche would get hurt, or fail. Blanche thought of herself as strong and capable and determined, and indeed she was at first. But in the strain after her action - after the ambush in Rouen, or that time with the smugglers in Provence - she fell apart. Even now she was still anxious from last year in Corsica, though she would not admit it. Her marriage had been in order to have a better chance of observing Mereville, but something had changed. Blanche knew something, Blanche was steeling herself for an unpleasant duty, and she would not find living with a husband, even a traitorous one, to be any more difficult than living with her father. It was something else.

She felt she needed to do more than simply marry Mereville, to stop his treason. Perhaps she was aware of some even greater threat, that Céleste had missed - she had certainly had the opportunity to find out, in all her meetings with her betrothed.

There was only an hour before the ceremony, but she knew where Monsieur Mereville would be, and she could reach him. She thought quickly for an excuse to leave as the others talked, and couldn’t come up with one - planning was Delphine’s job - but she had to go. She could not let Blanche do this herself, and be destroyed again afterward - and it took longer and longer, each time, for her to recover. Blanche was an excellent agent - she must not waste her nerves on Mereville. Not when there were alternatives.

Blanche would surely forgive her, and she would be right back, certainly before the ceremony.

She was not planning well, she was not calm enough, but Blanche had looked so miserable and angry and desperate, and she must do something. Luckily even in her finery she had daggers at her thighs and shoulders and the small of her back, and a pistol strapped to one calf. She slowed her pace and forced herself to sobriety. When she entered M. Mereville’s house she must be all sweetness.

She thought she performed well enough. She smiled at the butler and said, “Is he in his study? I know the way,” and set off ahead of him. She wished she had some way to distract him from her utterly, but all she could do was turn halfway down the corridor, still smiling, and wave him back to his post, and thankfully he went. The study, then. If she was quick with it, and could get behind him so no blood stained her dress, she could force open a window after doing it and claim she had been too shocked to scream for the first minute after finding M. Mereville stabbed by a roaming madman. It was good enough, for a plan conceived under such strain and in so little time. She had a spotless reputation - this might ruin it, but still it would protect her. She pushed back her velvet sleeves, reached into the false pocket of her skirt, and opened the study door.

Monsieur Mereville was lying stretched across the floor, reaching out to a chair. A tea-tray rested on a side table. Mereville’s eyes were rolled back in his head, and his face was pale, his lips flecked with foam. Céleste blinked and blinked at him, and then came to her senses and screamed.

***

Delphine whisked her skirts away from Monsieur Mereville’s face before he drooled on them. He reached to grab her dress, but his strength was already failing him and his arm fell far away from her. She leaned over the tea tray and rearranged the cups, removing the one he had drunk from.

She wrapped the cup in her handkerchief and dropped it into her reticule. Then she crossed to Mereville’s desk and removed the letter advising him to distrust - or better, to remove - his new wife. That went into the fire. She wrapped her shawl around herself carefully, placed her hat on her head, and left, closing the door silently behind her.

It was not a very long walk to Blanche’s house. She dropped the wrapped teacup in a public convenience as she passed it. Blanche no doubt could have managed matters herself, but this was what friends were for.


End file.
